Growing Up Ivy

by Peggy Dymond Leavey

  “When will that be?”

  “I’m not sure. It would be best if you stayed with your grandmother for now. Frannie still needs to straighten a few things out before you come back.”

  “But doesn’t she want to see me?”

  “Of course she does, Ivy. But she wrote you, pretending to still be in New York, to give herself a little more time.”

  “More time away from me. I don’t understand.”

  “There are things she wants to do, Ivy. You just have to be patient. You’re better off where you are now. Believe me.”

  “Oh, Gloria!”

  “Listen to me, Ivy. Half this city’s out of work. You should see the lineups for the soup kitchens — all the way round the block. You can’t go five yards down the street without someone asking for a handout.”

  Gloria continued. “My neighbour, Billy Cuthbert, who used to work in construction — you remember, you met him in the hall that time? He hasn’t had work in nearly two years. They even came and took his wife’s furniture, ’cos he couldn’t pay for it. Now he’s peddling shoelaces and pencils downtown.”

  “It’s like that everywhere, Gloria,” Ivy said. “My father, after he left here — you didn’t know he was here, did you? And that I went travelling with him?

  “After we got back, Papa got on a train going west, because he heard there was work out there. We got a letter from him at Christmas. He’d found a job delivering handbills. Oh, I have so many things to tell Momma. I have to see her.”

  “You will; I promise. Just give her a while to get back on her feet.”

  “Will you ask her to write to me? Please, Gloria? What’s the number on your building? I tried writing to you last summer but my letter came back.”

  “I won’t be there after the end of the month, anyway,” Gloria said. “I’m moving.”

  “You are?”

  “I’m getting married, Ivy. You remember Johnny Dracup, at the bake shop? Of course you do. You wrote to him. He showed me your letter just the other day. That’s when I decided to try to phone you.”

  “You’re marrying Johnny?” Ivy was incredulous. “But what about Momma? Where will she go?”

  “Well, Johnny and I won’t put her out in the cold,” Gloria said, and she gave a little laugh. “You can be sure of that. Anyway, we think in another few weeks she’ll have her strength back.”

  “And then she’ll let me come home?”

  “Try to be patient with her, Ivy.”

  “You keep saying that. It’s been an awfully long time — more than half a year.”

  “Try to understand.”

  “She is sick, isn’t she? I could come and help look after her.”

  “She’s not sick, not in the way you’re thinking. She’s just worn out.”

  “Does she know you’re talking to me today?”

  “I’m going to tell her; it’ll help put her mind at rest. But she still has dreams of acting, Ivy. And you know better than anyone what that means. I’m telling you it would be best if you stayed where you are. Best for everyone.”

  ***

  In August, on Ivy’s fourteenth birthday, a card arrived from Alva. He’d tucked a wrinkled two-dollar bill into the envelope, along with a letter to say that he was back in Ontario again. He’d lost the delivery job to someone who was willing to work for even less than what he was being paid.

  “Look, Grandmother,” Ivy said with pride. “This is Papa’s own handwriting.”

  “Things were no better in the west,” Alva wrote, with the help of his friend John, someone he’d met on the road.

  “Now we live at a camp run by the Gov’t of Canada. We are cutting down trees for a new road. It is hard work for twenty cents a day. It is good to be busy. They give us work clothes to wear and three meals a day. I read when I can, mostly papers we pass around. You would be proud of me.”

  “That was a real good thing you did, Ivy,” Maud said, “helping your father with his learning.”

  It had been no surprise to her that Ivy, who had attended school however sporadically in Toronto, was found to be ahead of the other students her age at the stone school in the village. She finished both Junior and Senior Fourth in one year, passed her entrance exams, and was ready to enter high school in September, 1932 — just one year behind Charlie Bayliss.

  21

  The Typing Class

  It seemed to Ivy that Charlie Bayliss had the same gentle way of handling Dora as Alva had. Much as she wished she could have kept the horse, Ivy knew that she couldn’t have found a better owner for her if she’d picked him out herself.

  Once she started high school, Ivy often saw Dora bringing Charlie in to school from the farm. She wasn’t the only girl who enjoyed watching the pair each morning as they trotted by on their way to the drive-shed at the end of the lane. But she was likely the only one admiring the horse.

  There would always be two or three girls waiting for Charlie to stride back across the yard. They’d link arms with him and come laughing into the school together.

  Mary Alice Flint, the girl with the lingering summer kisses, had long been gone from Charlie’s life, choosing to attach herself to Lewis Parker instead — likely because Parker’s father let the boy use the family car on weekends. But it didn’t take long for Charlie to discover that when you’re sixteen, there’s no shortage of Mary Alice Flints in the world.

  Dora was of more use to Charlie than merely a means to get about more quickly. When the well on the farm went dry that summer, Charlie and his horse were kept busy hauling water from the lake.

  The drought that year had reduced the quantity of milk that Edwin Fennell sent to the cheese factory each week, and that meant less money in his pocket to pay Charlie. The poor yield of hay and grain caused the farmer to worry about how he would feed the stock over the winter months, and Mr. Fennell began to sell off his herd.

  It took Charlie more than a year to pay off his debt to Maud Chalmers. He made the final payment with what he’d earned picking apples on brisk October mornings before he and Dora left for school.

  ***

  Ivy was fifteen and in Second Form at high school when she handed in an English assignment that she’d written — a short story about a Toronto child who had pinned all his hopes on getting a Star Santa Claus box at Christmastime. The dramatic twist in the tale came when the child’s family was evicted from their rooming house before the box could be delivered.

  The story so impressed the English teacher that Miss Derek read it out loud to the rest of the class.

  “This is the best piece of fiction I’ve ever had from a student.” The teacher had struggled to keep the tremor from her voice while she read Ivy’s story. “And I’ve been here for a very long time.”

  Ivy appreciated the fact that Miss Derek told no one who had written the piece, but when she asked that Ivy stay after school for a few minutes, the secret was out.

  Ivy avoided meeting the curious stares of the others as they left the classroom by focusing all her attention on scraping out the bottom of her inkwell with her pen nib.

  “You write very well, Ivy,” Miss Derek said, when they were alone and Ivy stood in front of the teacher’s desk. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “No, Miss. But I get a lot of practice. I’ve been writing my whole life.”

  “I think you have a special gift for it, Ivy. In fact, I’d like to see you submit this story for publication. I have Maclean’s magazine in mind. They publish several fiction stories in each issue, and yours is as good as many I’ve read there.”

  “But it isn’t really fiction,” Ivy said.

  Miss Derek had suspected as much. “It could be, though. You’ve obviously made sufficient changes to the truth.”

  The teacher leaned back in her chair, tenting her fingers and stud
ying the slender girl — the white blouse tucked into a plain brown skirt, the ankle socks and sensible oxfords. She knew her to be a quiet student — one who seemed to keep too much to herself.

  “You live with your grandmother, don’t you? I don’t suppose she has a typewriter.”

  “No, Miss.”

  “We’ll have to keep an eye out, then, for a secondhand machine. Manuscripts should be typewritten before they are submitted for publication.”

  “Even a secondhand typewriter would be expensive, wouldn’t it?”

  “Come with me.” The teacher was already on her feet. “I have an idea. Let’s go upstairs to the commercial room, see if Miss Johnson will let you use one of the school’s typewriters.”

  The typing teacher agreed that Miss Derek’s promising young writer could have the use of a typewriter during the noon hour and after school. But since Ivy was going to have to prepare future manuscripts herself, Miss Johnson suggested that she really should learn to type properly.

  After studying various schedules and seating plans, the teachers determined that there was room for Ivy in a Third Form typing class. The class, except for two students, was made up entirely of girls. The two exceptions were Delbert Coon and Charlie Bayliss.

  Delbert was taking an office-training course because his father felt it would come in handy when he joined the family business. Charlie was there because Delbert had talked him into it — and because the only other choice was Latin.

  “It’s a real good way to meet girls,” Delbert had promised. “The class will be full of them; all the peachiest girls want to be secretaries, you know. Anyway, typing’s a breeze.”

  But both boys realized how wrong that was when they discovered, on the very first day, that the typewriter keys were blank.

  When Ivy entered the classroom for the first time, she found that the space Miss Johnson had assigned her was at a machine directly in front of Charlie’s. She made her way as quickly as possible toward her seat, eyes lowered, sidestepping the other girls, who wandered around exchanging gossip.

  Charlie sat with his arms behind his head, his chair tilted back against the wall. He was more or less listening to Irene Noyes, who had perched herself on the edge of his desk. But at the same time, he was keeping an eye on the rest of the room.

  The minute Miss Johnson strode in, everyone scurried to take her seat. Irene hopped blithely off Charlie’s desk, colliding with Ivy and sending her books flying.

  Charlie was on his feet in an instant, crouching down to help collect the scattered books, coming face-to-face with the girl from whom he’d bought the horse.

  His smile widened. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

  Ivy felt the heat rise in her face. She took her books from him, mumbled an embarrassed “thank you,” and slid into her seat.

  It was bad enough being the new girl in a class of older students, a class that was already halfway through the term, but to have created such a commotion on her first day, and in front of Charlie Bayliss, too, made her want to crawl into a hole.

  When the class was over and everyone was leaving, Irene sidled up to Charlie again. She gave Ivy a frosty glare. “So, who’s your little friend, Charlie?” she asked.

  Before he allowed Irene to lead him like a puppy from the classroom, Charlie managed a wink at Ivy.

  Later, Charlie found himself thinking about Irene’s question. He knew very little about this girl named Ivy Chalmers, except that she lived with her grandmother, and that she had spent a summer with her father, selling shoes from the back of a peddling wagon.

  Now he was sorry, with the horse fully paid for, that he had no further excuse to call at the house on Arthur Road. Ivy Chalmers interested him, in a curious sort of way. She was not like any other girl he’d ever met.

  Ivy was still on Charlie’s mind a few days later when he happened to spot her leaving the school. Telling Linda Darling that he’d have to see her later, he galloped down the steps and arrived on the sidewalk before Ivy did.

  “Hi, Ivy Chalmers,” he said.

  “Hi, yourself,” said Ivy. She hoped she didn’t look as surprised as she felt.

  Charlie fell into step beside her and was suddenly unable to think of anything to say. He cast an incredulous eye at the pile of books she hugged against her chest. “What form are you in that you have so much homework all the time?” was what he came up with.

  “It’s not all the time,” Ivy said. She wondered how he would know about the number of books she took home every night — unless he’d been watching her. “I just like to keep up. And to answer your question, I’m in Second Form.”

  “But you’re in Third Form typing.”

  “It’s the only Third Form class I’m in. And I take it because I plan to be a writer.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You do it all the time. A writer,” Charlie said. And then he said it again, as if he were trying out a new word.

  He was still walking with her when she turned off the main street onto Arthur Road. They moved to either side of a group of little girls playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, and when they had passed them, Charlie said, “I never met a writer before.”

  “I haven’t either,” said Ivy. “I’ve read lots of different ones, though.”

  “Anyone else in your family a writer?”

  “Well, you’ve met my grandmother. And my father has done lots of different things, even gold mining in Northern Ontario.”

  “No kidding? What about your mother? Is she a writer?”

  He seemed to be teasing now. “She’s an actress,” Ivy stated.

  “In the movies? Say, I saw Frankenstein, with Boris Karloff, at the Roxy last week. You see it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “So, what’s your mother’s name? Maybe I’ve seen her in the movies sometime.”

  “You haven’t. My mother is a stage actress. Her name is Frances Chalmers. But her friends all call her Frannie.”

  “Is she famous?”

  “I’m not sure. I know she’d like to be.” Ivy hesitated. She stole a cautious look at Charlie’s face, longing to tell him — this boy she felt connected to in ways she could not fully explain.

  She shifted the weight of the schoolbooks onto her hip. When Charlie offered to carry them for her, she politely declined and walked on.

  “My mother went to New York, and everything,” Ivy found herself confessing. “She was going to be a star. The director promised her the lead in a new play, but then he broke his promise. I think that was so mean. She had to come back to Toronto. I’m just waiting to hear if things are better, and then I’ll go home, too.”

  “You’re going back to live in the city?”

  “One day. I only came here to stay with my grandmother till my mother made a name for herself. But that was more than two years ago.”

  They’d reached the picket fence at the front of Maud’s place. Soon she would go inside and he would lose her.

  Ivy paused a moment, her hand on the gate, remembering something. When she turned toward Charlie again, she was wearing a frown. “Where’s Dora?” she asked.

  Charlie’s jaw dropped. He’d completely forgotten about the horse. “She’s back at the school,” he said, with a gulp.

  Ivy fiddled with the latch on the gate, hiding a smile, knowing then that Charlie must have walked this way on purpose, just to be with her. “I was afraid something might have happened to her,” she said.

  “Oh, no. She’s real fine.” Charlie spoke quickly to cover his embarrassment. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. The farmer next door, Mr. Fennell, has a couple of horses, and when he lets them into the field next to our place, you should hear Dora. She whinnies like crazy. She really likes their company.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Ivy. Giving Charlie a smi
le, she slipped through the gate.

  Charlie waited till the green front door had closed behind her. When it had, he ran all the way back to school, periodically giving little leaps into the air.

  22

  Literary Friends

  When Harry Pike saw Charlie wheel through the gates of the Shady Dell Golf Course on a bicycle, and learned that the youth had restored the bike himself, he made a mental note to mention the boy’s ability to his brother-in-law, who owned the repair shop in the village.

  Edwin Fennell had given Charlie the old bicycle as payment for helping him fill his woodhouse before winter. Charlie had been happy to accept it. He’d never before owned a bike.

  He tinkered with it on and off for weeks, removing its chain to clean and oil it, scraping away the rust on the frame, straightening and tightening the spokes, and patching a hole in one of the tires.

  Charlie was pleased with the final result. The satisfaction he’d felt working on the simple machine led him to take a second look at his grandfather’s collection of old tools that had been gathering dust in the shed. After sorting and cleaning them, he began to look for excuses around the farm to put them to use. Rena could always find something that needed fixing.

  When the snow finally melted, Charlie rode his bicycle to the Larkin District High School and was able to give Dora the rest she deserved.

  ***

  Maud Chalmers had gradually increased the size of her flock of laying hens, knowing she could count on Ivy’s help with their care and feeding, and with the gathering and washing of the eggs. And Ivy had had to accept that a two-year-old hen that no longer laid eggs could provide a Sunday dinner for someone — as long as it wasn’t her.

  Early one Saturday morning in the spring, as Ivy was helping her grandmother carry the eggs to the market, she spotted her English teacher choosing stalks of fresh asparagus at the next stall.